


Three drinks or was it five

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Avoiding The Very Important Talk, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Drunk Sex, First Time, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Implied Slash, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mildly dubious consent due to mutual inebriation, Morning After, Morning after the first time, Sherlock would rather eat glass than Have A Talk, Two idiots who never actually talk things out, implied drunk sex, it's all good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10069553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: Sherlock wakes up beside John, naked in his bed, after a night of getting hammered together on very good Scotch. Trying to spare John embarrassment, Sherlock makes as much noise as possible to indirectly wake John, all the while dreading the Very Important Talk he knows John will want to have.For alexxphoenix42, who posted a wish list on tumblr of fic tropes she'd like to see written. This short fic is to fill number 4:4) John and Sherlock kiss accidentally while drunk, and then wonder what to do the next morning





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexxphoenix42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Сколько же мы выпили, три стакана или пять?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14230392) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Not betaed so please excuse mistakes.

 

Sherlock woke with a start and unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Turning with a groan, he made a strangled sound in his throat.  _ He wasn’t alone in his bed _ . There, beside him, was his very warm, very real, and very deeply asleep friend, John Watson.

Instinctively recoiling, Sherlock scooted to the extreme edge of the bed and clamped a hand over his mouth as memories of the prior night flooded into his mind: John, arriving full of tension from a long day at the surgery. Sherlock, suggesting they have a drink before dinner. One drink, two. Three drinks and - later - was it four, or five? Scotch, neat. The Balvenine single malt that a grateful client had gifted him last Christmas. Loose limbed, side by side on the sofa, both of them mellow and smiling, knees brushing, smiles growing more blurred around the edges with each drink. Slurred giggles. Another two fingers of amber relaxation and they drifted into leaning on each other, quite naturally and without fanfare. Leaning lead to an arm being flung around the other’s shoulders, then a leg flung over the other’s leg. 

And, well - here they were. Sherlock slid silently out of the bed and stood for a moment watching John sleep, looking relaxed and perfectly at home in Sherlock’s bed.  _ As if he belonged there _ . 

Sherlock’s mouth twisted at the thought. Of course John wouldn't think he belonged there when he woke. John, who so carefully maintained his hetrosexuality to anyone who assumed otherwise. 

_ What was he to do?  _ How could Sherlock salvage this awkward situation and maintain their friendship? Surely John would be furious when he awoke. Surely he’d punch Sherlock, grab his clothes, and storm upstairs.

_ Grab his clothes _ ; That gave Sherlock an idea. He padded stealthily around the bedroom, fetching clothing off the floor. He quietly shook out John’s jeans, shirt, pants, vest and jumper and draped them over the footboard beside John’s feet. After shuffling around in the dim light for several more minutes he also found John’s socks and added them to the pile. His own clothing, he jammed into the hamper in the corner.

Retrieving his dressing gown from its hook, Sherlock headed into the bathroom and shut the door behind him - not slammed, but shut much harder than normal. He flipped on the overhead light and the ancient, creaky exhaust fan. He rarely used it while showering - the sound it make set his teeth on edge - but today, noise was what he wanted. The noisier the fan, the better. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the off-pitch whirring, peppered at odd intervals with a ball-bearing-off-balance-screech. A too-rough jerk at the shower curtain screeched its metal hooks across the shower curtain rod - another sound that made Sherlock wince. 

Turning the hot tap on full blast and the cold only slightly, Sherlock stepped under the spray, estimating he had 18 minutes until the water heater fully emptied itself - less if Mrs. Hudson was already up. Surely John was awake now, with all the noise Sherlock had made. 18 minutes was more than enough time for John to dress and escape to his room. Sherlock gritted his teeth again when the thought of The Talk he was sure John would insist they have when he came back downstairs.

Sherlock’s visage brightened as a new idea dawned. Perhaps John would assume that he was too drunk to climb the stairs the night before. It could work: Tell John that he’d been too loose limbed to manage the stairs so Sherlock had steered him to his own bed, helped him undress for comfort, then retired to the sofa. The sofa...where he would have slept off his own inebriation. It would save them both embarrassment and save them the need to Have A Talk.

_ It could work.  _ John had been quite drunk. It wasn’t too far off the mark to assume that John wouldn’t remember the events of the previous night. The events that caused Sherlock’s cheeks to flare when remembered. The events that had given life to every desire that Sherlock had kept buried for many years - really, since that first night they’d chased a cab through the labyrinth of London. But memories they would have to remain if he wanted to keep his closest friend. 

Sherlock nodded to himself, confident in his plan, and stepped out just as the water started to cool. His towel felt cool compared to the heat of the shower but the steam still swirling on its way to the exhaust fan took the edge off of the chill. His burgundy dressing gown, belted tight, also helped hold the warmth of the shower on his skin. He wiped the mirror with the towel and carefully combed product through his damp curls to tame them. He could shave to put off the inevitable confrontation with John for another ten minutes, but instead he squared his shoulders, looked into his own eyes, swallowed audibly and murmured, “Into battle.”

He headed into the kitchen to start coffee but stopped in the doorway, struck dumb by the sight that greeted him: John Watson, barefoot, dressed in jeans and white vest, hair still mussed from the night, fitting slices of bread into the toaster.

“Oh, hello,” John said brightly. “About time you got out of there. Did you leave me any hot water?” He crossed the kitchen and put his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close to place a soft kiss on his cheek. “Can you start coffee while I shower?”

Too shocked to move, Sherlock’s arms remained at his sides. He could count on one hand the number of time John had ever touched him prior to the previous night (five) and now here John stood, arms around Sherlock, hugging him tight. Sherlock’s lower jaw dropped as he looked down at John’s face, eyes shining as John smiled up. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut with a  _ click  _ as John stepped back. He stood frozen as John entered the bathroom, turned and gave Sherlock a soft smile, then closed the door softly.

_ What the hell was going on? _

The morning certainly wasn’t playing out the way Sherlock had expected when he woke beside John. John wasn’t blustering about not being gay. No fists had flown - yet. John seemed calm and even -  _ happy _ . They’d gotten drunk, wound up naked in Sherlock’s bed, had sex, and John seemed happy. 

Sherlock was more than confused. He was dumbfounded.

Finally rousing himself from his reverie, Sherlock started the coffee pot, retrieved the toast and fished in the fridge for butter and jam. He was just straightening with one in each hand when John came out of the bathroom in a billow of steam, dressed only in a towel around his hips. (John never used the exhaust fan, either.) He met Sherlock’s eyes, smiled again, then headed up the stairs to his room.

Sherlock was still confused and off center, brooding over coffee and toast at the kitchen table, when John came down dressed in jeans, a soft henley, and his warm slippers. He filled a mug and took the seat beside Sherlock, buttering a slice of toast as he smiled slightly and hummed under his breath.

The tension inside Sherlock threatened to burst his seams. Finally able to take it no more, he snapped at John, “Don’t you want to  _ talk _ ?”

“Talk? No, not particularly.”

“About…” Sherlock jerked his head toward his bedroom.

John smiled. “Nope. I’m good.”

“Don’t you want to Have A Talk?” Sherlock’s eyebrows crept toward his hairline. Surely John would want to  _ hash things out _ .

John shook his head.

“But, John, don’t you…”

“No, I don’t, Sherlock. It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Good, actually. Everything is … good.” John pressed this leg firmly against Sherlock’s under the table.

“Everything is … good?” Sherlock’s voice lifted on the final word, betraying his anxieties about John’s too-calm acceptance of what had transpired between them the night before.

John sat his cup down carefully, keeping both hands wrapped around it. “It’s all good. Really, Sherlock, it is.” He smiled fondly.

“And now we’re…”

“Yep.” John wrapped his foot around Sherlock’s ankle and leaned his shoulder against Sherlock’s, leaving no  room for doubt in Sherlock’s mind of his intent.

Sherlock gusted out a great sigh and slouched in his chair, all the tension he’d carried since he woke up beside John gone. No need to  _ Have A Talk _ . John wasn’t angry. And John definitely wasn’t straight. John had smiled at him four - or was it five - times since Sherlock has entered the kitchen. John had embraced him and kissed his cheek. And John was running his instep up and down Sherlock’s calf with intent.

Everything truly was good.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm iriswallpaper on tumblr, too.


End file.
